


orchestral decembers

by forinstance



Series: Brainrot Groupchat Secret Santa 2020 [3]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Crying, Established Relationship, Jealousy, King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Knight Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Pet Names, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Top Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), and by light it's barely there, author's unnecessary greek mythology references, size difference kink if u look tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forinstance/pseuds/forinstance
Summary: The sun is setting, lavish reds and pinks and oranges lighting the room aglow. It reflects off of them, long lashes casting shadows over George’s face, makes him seem heavenly and celestial and Dream can see Aphrodite in his beauty, his sharp cheekbones and eyes.Dream is hopelessly selfish in his desires.He wants to pull George down from Olympus, tie him to his own ambitions as though he's entitled to such an honour. George is untouchable and yet Dream wants to touch and worship anddefilehim in every way he can. It's frustrating. Conflicting.Or, Dream finds he has a certain disdain for public relations.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Brainrot Groupchat Secret Santa 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091507
Comments: 93
Kudos: 1084





	orchestral decembers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lishen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lishen/gifts).



> secret santa fic!
> 
> should be noted i was listening to achilles come down and champagne & sunshine while writing this LMAO two completely different vibes  
> extremely rushed bc i procrastinated half to hell, but i hope u enjoy!! happy late new years to everyone!!

Maybe it was insecurity, maybe it was something else.

Maybe it was the way waves crashed against his skin, irritating and refreshing all at once, whispering sweet encouragements into his ear as the room spun, spun, spun beneath him.

Dream knew his position, knew his boundaries and limitations amongst the affluent and noble. He watched, stood his ground with a set expression as George pivoted from person to person, all saccharine smiles and melodic laughter. 

He was charming.

Dream was suffocating.

  
  
  


_“Calm down,” George smiled, dainty fingers toying with his hair. “It’s for public relations, I’m not going to ‘replace you’ with some nobleman.”_

_“You could.”_

_“I won’t, idiot.” Honey brown eyes meet his, and Dream chuckles, setting his hand against George’s cheek. He felt their fire in his palm, licking his skin where they touched. No matter how many times they did this, met in the privacy and comfort of themselves, he would never tire of seeing that pink flush ghost across George’s cheeks when he closed his eyes and leaned forward, fitting their lips together._

_The sun is setting, lavish reds and pinks and oranges lighting the room aglow. It reflects off of them, long lashes casting shadows over George’s face, makes him seem heavenly and celestial and Dream can see Aphrodite in his beauty, his sharp cheekbones and eyes._

_“I’ll hold you to that.”_

  
  
  
  


The privacy of their chambers a few hours prior seemed distant in the cacophony of music and gossip, ringing in his ears as he stared, fixated. Cerulean silk pooled at George’s feet, thin chains connecting the ornate cape to his collar. He embodied perfection, the clean white of his attire a perfect compliment to his pale skin.

He was enjoying himself, at ease amongst pretentious aristocrats and sophistication in a way Dream could never emulate.

Maybe it was the consequence for years of admiring from afar, yearning to touch what he’d deemed as unattainable, but it stuck with him, settling under his skin, his actions. It didn’t change their differences (or, his insecurities), but it stung, on the occasion.

Even when he _had_ George in his arms, bodies melded against each other in passing moments of affection, it would come back to bite. Fulfilment was playing a cruel game on him, taunting him at every turn when he refused to give in.

Eyes flitting over the room—a frequent habit that had developed, over the years—he paused, blinking in amusement as sage green landed on dove grey. An obvious contrast to the bold colours littering the ballroom, he scoffed, a grin lifting lips as he recognised Lord Wilbur, bidding his goodbye to George while he escorted two particular men towards the banquet table.

He made a note to greet the three later, and personally make sure Tommy and Tubbo hadn't driven Wilbur insane yet. File it under his excuses for a distraction, perhaps, but at least this time, they hadn’t managed to escape their “chaperone”.

The trio disappeared amidst the crowd, and he found himself mildly disappointed as another stepped forward to fill their space. George was occupied once more, accepting their hand with a honeyed smile as he recited the same practised greeting. Precise, perfect. As he always was.

Call it overprotectiveness, paranoia, but recognition made him stand a little straighter, jaw tight and eyes narrowed as he peered. Dream knew how to read people, of course, but it was convenient when he already knew them.

Acquaintances, perhaps, he’d never really _met_ Lord Avery. They’d passed in hallways, shoulders tense and hackles raised as he stood at George’s side, hand settled on his dagger. Whether his wariness was taught or instinctual, it didn’t stop him from taking the opportunity to jump to conclusions, making assumptions when they weren’t due. This was no different.

He observed, unease in the way his nails dug into his skin when the Lord laughed, placing a hand on a woman’s lower back and pressing her forward. Lady Vera, his daughter. The points connected in his head, anger and irritation bubbling in his veins faster than he could tame them. Avery’s intentions were loud and clear, echoing in his mind and urging him to do something when he could not. 

The waves transformed into fire. 

There was that familiar burning in his throat, words and unspoken confessions slipping through his fingers as emotion overwhelmed decision. Brief enough to suppress, tame, but long enough for those same worries to falter beyond the careful walls he’s built. He didn’t doubt George, but the crimson of her gown, decorated with the finest jewels money could attain, accentuated, complemented, even, royal blue. She could give him more. She too, stood on Olympus. 

And yet, he didn’t want to let go. He knew George, spent every passing day and moment of his childhood with him, could read him like the back of his hand. Possessiveness seeped and embedded into his veins, hissing unpleasantly in his mind. It was unbearable.

“Didn’t take you for a wallflower, if I’m being honest.” 

The monotonous voice cuts through his thoughts, head snapping to the side in alarm as his mind folds and twists.

A smug smirk, signature braided hair. _Pink_ braided hair, flipped over one shoulder. He recognises the high waisted pants, loose white lace-up and obnoxious _crown_ that suddenly reminds him of all the places that this could have occurred, that they could have met, he never expected it to be at an event like this.

“Techno…” He shakes his head, almost relieved, “I didn’t expect you.”

The other turns, and Dream has to fight his irritation, resisting months of mannerisms drilled into his very being when he leans back, foot against the polished marble. “Figured I owe everyone an appearance. It’s been months, Wilbur thinks I’ve died.”

“Oh, he was heading to–”

“I know. I’m avoiding him, confrontation, whatever you’d call it. Seems like you’d know all about it.”

Dream’s distracted. Red seeps into his vision, the corners of his eyes. He never realised how bold crimson was, until today. “What?”

A bemused sigh. Techno closes his eyes, tilts his head back. Dream feels like sinking into the ground. When had he become so easy to read?

“I wouldn’t start petty, trivial rivalries with just anyone,” he begins, and Dream tears his eyes away from expensive rubied necklaces to stare, confused, “so before you let those thoughts––whispers, fuck, whatever you wanna call ‘em get to your head, think.”

Dream vaguely remembers talking about his own, once. It’s not the same, but he appreciates the sentiment. Just as much as he hadn’t expected to be getting any semblance of advice from Technoblade, it’s a nice change, if only temporary.

“Wealth doesn’t amount to influence, or power, for that matter. And I bet if you tried, you could go and steal ‘pretty boy’ from right under her. You act like you’re the only one who stares at him from across a room for hours at a time.”

Dream blinks. Techno stares.

He feels the laughter before it comes, breathless wheezes dismantling his composure. He swears he sees the ghost of a smile on Techno’s lips too, failing as he tries to remain poker-faced. “I–shit, I didn’t think you cared. Or noticed, actually. Am I that obvious?”

“I’m not heartless, Dream. Not completely, anyway. And to someone who… knows you, yes. ” Techno stands up straight, eyes the room once before he sighs. “I’ve got family to make amends to. Don’t dwell on it too much.”

He blends into the crowd, and Dream hears the ocean in his ears. It’s refreshing, almost.

Floods rush in his mind, loud and numbing and everything melts away. He feels stupid for letting such a small insignificance affect him as much as this. All the promises they made, implicit words passed between their lips, and yet, insecurity claws at this throat, reducing him to nothing.

He collects himself, blinks away the scarlet in his eyes and embraces the voice that screams at him. She’s moved closer in the brief moment he glanced away, hand trailing a line of gold on George’s cape and he lets his blood cool, breaking away from the wall. 

He likes the way George’s eyes flicker to his at once, startled.

Maneuvering through masses of people is second practice at this point, and he holds his gaze, swift as he makes his way across the floor. 

“I’d like to make a proposal, if you don’t mind, your highness–” the Lord is saying, mindless muttering to his ears as he steps closer. Dream revels in the brief look of affront that flashes in his features when he interrupts, slotting himself next to George, in his rightful place by the King’s side as cuts him off mid sentence with a bow. 

“My liege,” he begins, voice imbued with something that he knows only George would discern, “I hate to intrude, but it seems there’s been a matter brought up that needs to be resolved.” From the corner of his eye, he notices Lord Avery opening his mouth to retort, to object with his unwanted opinion. “Urgently.” He adds, hoping George notices the disdain in his words and _understands_.

He does, thankfully. Dream feels warmth blossom in his chest at the way George relaxes, something that no one else would pick up on unless they’d spent countless hours in his presence, memorising every smile and touch and part of him. “Lord Avery, it seems we’ll have to continue another time.” He provides, face a perfect expression of muted disappointment. It looks beautiful on him.

“Your highness, surely this can wait–” 

“Lord Avery, Lady Vera.” George cuts in, tone final. “You are excused.” 

Dream feels the rush in his veins, drunk on satisfaction as Avery clenches his fist. He knows he can’t talk back, doesn’t have the authority to, the power. The storm breaks and his waves lull and it’s addicting, celebrating a temporary victory. It’s enough. They’re enough.

Green and gold seep into his vision to replace blood red and Dream loosens in content. He places an arm on George’s back and leans down, knows George hears him when his breath ghosts the other’s ear and he feels that unmistakable shiver. It’s gratifying. “Ten minutes.” Dream whispers, voice low. There’s enough people around them that the kiss he presses against George's neck goes unnoticed, and the glare he sends in Vera’s direction holds enough threats and promises that she doubles back in surprise.

His echoes are calm. The waves are tempered.

* * *

  
  


Hiraeth.

It’s a word George mentions to him one day, in fleeting conversation.

While George had never been impressed by mythology and poetry and retellings of the Gods, Dream certainly was. Hours were spent in the corner of the library, amidst tall looming shelves with their swirls of precious metals, knees pressed together as George stared at the illustrations of deities and immortals pictured in Dream’s books. “Achilles and Patroclus,” he’d pointed out, “they’re my favourite.”

He’s almost glad that George didn’t understand what he’d meant. He keeps the secret to himself, tucked away safely in his pocket.

It’s melancholic. They’d almost ended like that, in the distant past.

In the dark outside of George’s room, he indulges his thoughts for a moment, glad he stayed. Pursued. It had been December too, then, rain hailing the courtyards as George snuck down to his tiny room and told him of a wedding that would never come. It’s become a comfort, a memory he revisits when he’s alone in the cold. 

When he pushes the door open, stepping inside and letting his eyes adjust, he finds that he no longer feels hiraeth. He’s found home in the arms of a boy who shines like the sun and the stars all at once.

“Dream.”

George is so, so ethereal in the moonlight.

It casts a sheen of blue across the room, reflecting against the gold of George’s clothes and makes him seem like something straight from the heavens. Torn directly from the pictures in Dream’s bound leather books. 

He steps closer, notices the slight flush on George’s cheeks as he turns away. The bed dips when he brings himself to kneel besides him, drinking in the expanse of pale, unmarked skin. “I can’t believe you’re mine sometimes,” he says, softly, and he dares to reach out, just this once. “It feels like a dream.” His fingers are hot against George’s neck as he presses, fitting sinfully against his palm. 

George’s hands come up to wrap around his wrist, and Dream feels his pulse thrum beneath his fingers. They don’t speak, but Dream understands. He stares, notices the difference in the shape, the size. George is so small, compared to him. 

It brings a rush to his veins. 

It would be so easy to overpower him like this, chain him to the bed as he ripped scream after scream from the pretty boy’s lips and ruined him completely. He can fit both of George’s wrists in one hand with ease, but he doesn’t. Another time, he hopes, but for now he wants to show him just how important he is.

He lets go, meets George’s gaze as he trails down. The metal of his cloak clasp is cool as he undoes it, letting blue silk fall and pool around them. He wants to savour this. Them.

Dream’s eyes slip shut, and George follows. They fall together, mouths fitting so perfectly that Dream doesn’t want to think, wants to let go and drown in George’s taste as arms wrap around his neck and he works at the buttons of George’s suit. In here, in the heat of themselves, George doesn’t have to pretend. Those same candied smiles and coy glances are genuine. They’re for him, and he wants to savour them forever.

His hands close around George’s hips, and Dream pulls him forward as their clothes fall to the ground. George’s legs spread, straddling his thigh as Dream lowers his head and whispers sweet affirmations against his collarbones, mouthing gentle kisses on his skin. He wants to appreciate George, show him just how much he loves him in this moment. 

Soft, breathless whines fall from George’s mouth as Dream nips and bites, leaving marks that he wants to make sure will remain for days. “Dream,” he breathes, fingers carding through his hair, “please, I need this. I need you.” And he melts. He wants to be careful, treat George like a precious doll that could break at the slightest touch, but Dream is entranced by his parted lips and sparkling eyes and God, he wants to ruin him.

“Fuck,” his words come out in a harsh whisper, hand tights and possessive on George’s hips. The contact burns him. He swears he can feel George leaning into his touch, an unspoken invitation for him to leave bruises that’ll stay imprinted on his skin for days, and he wonders how someone can embody perfection so entirely. “You can’t do this to me, baby, it’s not fair.”

He feels disconnected, like everything is blurry and dizzying and the only thing that’s still is George and he doesn’t know why. For all those tales he’s read of Olympus and their columns of white gold and marble, he’s sure that right now, heaven is with them right here, in a room lit by dim moonlight as raindrops start to fall. Noise echoes in his head, soothing as George places a hand against Dream’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“You have me. You always will.”

And Dream believes him.

Cold begins to seep into the room, filling the air in the absence of the fireplace. He doesn’t feel it, not when he trails warmth up George’s sides and watches as he shivers at the touch. “Then let me appreciate you, darling.” It comes out as a murmur, his voice small. He leans in, breath hot against George’s ear as he holds the smaller boy impossibly closer to him. “Give yourself to me.”

“Okay,” George exhales, and he closes his eyes, chest rising and falling as he breathes in sharply. “Okay. I trust you.”

Dream wants to hand the world to him on a silver platter.

George is so light, so easy to lift as he slides off Dream’s thigh, hands fisting in cotton white sheets as Dream lays him down. He reaches into the drawer besides George’s bed, familiarity in his movements as he finds what he’s looking for, clasping it. He dangles the ribbon of blue silk above George's eyes, watches as he automatically raises his arms. He’s so good, so obedient for him.

No matter how many times they do this, indulge in themselves and each other, he’ll never tire of seeing George’s pale, slim wrists bound in blue, tied to the headboard. Like this, he’s like a canvas for Dream to mark and touch and paint, open just for him as he spreads George’s thighs, slotting himself between them. His eyes sparkle like the moon, flushed from his face to his chest and Dream never wants to leave.

He wonders how a man as simple and ordinary as him got so lucky.

“Dream, please. Break me.” It barely reaches Dream's ears, so quiet that he almost thinks he imagined it. It’s not a request, it’s a statement, and Dream feels any semblance of self control he had snap. He leans down, noticing the way George goes limp, closing his eyes as Dream’s breath ghosts his skin. It’s risky—dangerous, even, but he presses his mouth to George’s throat, listens as noises spill from those trembling lips. Open mouthed kisses turn to bites, and George arches, hands tugging on his restraints as cries and whimpers fill the room.

George is shaky, impatient by the time Dream gets to his thighs. He shifts back, getting a better angle as he sucks and nips marks into the smooth, milky skin there, decorating his _canvas_ to his heart’s content. The rain is harsher, pounding against the windows and casting tiny shadows across the room, but the gasps he teases out of George are loud and clear.

Satisfied, he sits up, takes in the sight of George’s head turned onto the pillow. Tears are welling in his eyes, lips quivering and parted as his breath comes out in harsh pants. Dream feels that urge to control surge in his chest again, wants to draw more pretty tears and cries from George as heat pools low in his stomach.

It’s fucked, he thinks, the way he takes advantage of the invisible power he has over George. And yet, he can’t bring himself to care as George’s lips fall open for his fingers, eagerly taking them in his mouth as he lapped and sucked compliantly. In his defence, he knew George lavished in the attention, constantly craved for more. Who was he to deny?

George almost whined as Dream’s fingers left his mouth, lips glistening with spit. He chuckles, using his other hand to cradle George’s face, admiring him. “Be patient,” he coos, swiping a thumb over the tear that manages to escape, “you’re doing so well for me, baby.”

He gets an impatient whimper in response.

Despite the number of times they’ve done this, found comfort in this routine, Dream always smiles when he places a hand under George’s thigh, pulling them apart once more. He watches as George turns his head into the pillow, muffling his voice as he mumbles out something far too soft for him to hear. “What was that, sweetheart? Speak up.”

“–it’s embarrassing. Displayed like this.”

“Oh, baby. Look at me.” His heart swells.

George doesn’t.

“I asked you to do something, George.”

Using his name clearly has an effect, or maybe it’s a testament to how well George responds to him as he slowly shifts to face him, face red. “See?” He says, “That wasn’t so hard.”

The other has barely enough time to part his lips in a response before he’s slowly pushing a finger inside, revelling the way George’s eyes blow wide in shock, a choked cry tumbling from his throat. George opens up so well beneath him, for him, little noises falling from his lips as Dream inserts a second. He wants to break George as much as wants to praise him, pumping in and out rhythmically as George writhes.

Dream’s hand is heavy on George’s lower stomach as he holds him down, silently marvelling at just how big he is compared to him. His hand is almost enough to cover his entire abdomen, and suddenly that urge is back, whispering at him to destroy and break and _use._

George gasps, breathing coming out in uneven pants as Dream’s grip tightens on his thigh and he finally, finally reaches deep enough to touch that spot inside him with a third. The way he arches is beautiful, and Dream shamelessly stares, entranced. George is painfully hard, cock leaking precum onto his stomach and he decides that’s enough, ignoring the way George whimpers pitifully at the loss as he pulls out. 

When Dream looks back, George is already there to meet him. He’s tensed, pretty brown eyes glimmering in anticipation and fire as Dream takes his cock in his hand, lining up the tip and pressing against his hole as George’s head tilts back, a guttural moan coming from his throat as Dream pushes in ever so slightly.

“Don’t–don’t tease me, Dream, please, I’ve been so good, I need–” George’s pleads are desperate, a last effort and if it weren’t for Dream’s hand still holding him down, he’s sure he would’ve shifted his hips back, searching for relief.

“Do you think you deserve it?” There’s a tilt in his tone, a sense of danger and George stills at the change, sucks in a sharp breath.

“Did you do anything when that bitch started putting her hands on you?” Dream’s words were harsh, eyes narrowed as his hand tightened on George’s skins, strong enough to bruise. He moves, entering painfully slow. George chokes, sputtering and grabbing at the silk that restrains his wrists. “You knew what Avery was doing.” Deeper. “You let it happen.”

“Please, Dream, I didn’t mean it like that, I was being polite!” Deeper.

There it is. Tears finally spill down George’s face, leaving wet trails down his cheeks and throat and dampening the pillow as George lets out a broken sob, clenching his fists hard enough that his knuckles turn white when Dream bottoms out. “Were you, darling?”

George feels so, so full as Dream stills, looming over him. The difference between them is apparent like this, Dream’s broader shoulders and toned arms and chest and _hands_ that could pin him down without even trying. “I’m sorry,” he cries, skin hot and burning where it touches the sheets, it feels like he’s melting, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise–”

Dream silences him, lips scorching against his and George instinctively reaches up, tugging at blond strands as he hooks his legs around Dream and suddenly it feels like he’s drowning and breathing for the first time all at once as Dream starts to _move_.

George doesn’t even recognise the strangled noise he lets out, breaking their kiss as he throws his head back, sensations overwhelming every inch of his body. He runs his hands down, desperately and selfishly and digs his nails into Dream’s back, feeling every movement of those taunt muscles as he slides in and out, grunting at just how _tight_ George is. He wants to keep this, everything they have and feel and see at this very moment, bottled or inscribed or burned into veins. George doesn’t break, he splinters, and it’s so, so beautiful as he comes undone.

“No one,” he grits out, voice commanding and possessive all at once, “can make you feel like this.” Only you, George thinks, mind hazed and blurred and messy. “No one can touch you like this.” _Only you. “_ You’re mine. Mine to touch, mine to mark, mine to _use._ ” _Only you._

All George can do is nod as he cries, moans filling the space between them as Dream continues, cock pounding into him relentlessly. He screams, sure that he feels blood at how hard he claws at Dream’s back, but he’s too lost in the dizzying gratification as Dream hits that place inside him again and again, moans sharp and high and laced in pleasure.

He doesn’t expect the change in position, choking in a small breath as Dream flips him onto his side, one leg flung over his shoulder. George cries as Dream angles even deeper, making him sputter and cry every time his cock sinks in and skin meets skin in a loud slap. There’s something against his lower back, smoothing over the skin there before he realises what Dream’s looking at, what he’s touching. “If only they could see this,” he snaps his hips again, harshly. George feels like he’s going to collapse. “My name, my brand on your skin.” 

He remembers, amidst the haze in his mind. A singular letter against his tailbone, and the night after it was imprinted there. He’d fallen apart, just like this, back arched and weeping as Dream used him over and over and over. Took him apart, ruined him then placed him back together. He loves it when he gets like this, possessive and selfish and everything he’s ever wanted.

“Ruin me, Dream, please, ruin me, use me.” He’s close to passing out, voice barely recognisable but it works, has its effect on Dream as he speeds up, the bruising grip on his thigh returning. He can’t wait to see the handprints there tomorrow, the bruises and hickeys and marks all over his body.

“Wanna keep you like this, all perfect for me. You’re being so good.” Dream mumbles, and he’s close, hips stuttering as George arches. “So good for me.” The praise goes straight to his head as he lays there and lets the warmth in his stomach pool and spill as he comes, tipping over the edge as Dream fucks him through his broken sobs. 

Dream’s low groan is foretelling as George clenches around him, impossibly tight as he uses George’s body to chase his own release. They still for a moment, and George is almost high on the overwhelming pleasure before Dream is filling him and he feels full again, weak cries leaving his lips. 

George has to hold back a frail whimper when Dream pulls out, heat reigniting his cheeks as Dream parts his legs even more and stares, watching his come slowly leak out of him. He tries to close his thighs, pushing against Dream’s hands to hide his shame but he knows it’s futile. Dream is so big against him, all lean muscle and strength from years of training and George both hates it and loves it at the same time. 

“I love you,” and George turns, blinking as Dream slumps forward, head resting in the dip of his neck and shoulder. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He repeats, over and over like a mantra in George’s ear. Exhaustion settles in their bones, yet Dream still ghosts the marks he left in gentle kisses, worshipping him like a God. Hell, he feels like one. 

George smiles, limbs aching and weak as he holds him.

“I love you too.” He confesses quietly, and it comes out like a promise.

There’s a million and a half thoughts racing through Dream’s head, clouding his mind as they lay in the afterglow of each other, but he thinks that as long as he can keep this, keep George in their own personal serenity, he’ll be satisfied. He laces their hands, content to sink into paradise in their bliss.  
  


* * *

_It’s raining._

_Winds tear at the palace courtyards, ruining Spring’s bloom as droplets of ice terrorise servants trying to escape the storm. He watches, curled in blankets of cotton and silk as he sits by the window, head against the cool glass. The room is cold, freezing despite the burning fireplace, the only thing that could possibly warm him figuratively miles away._

_A wedding._

_How was he so naive?_

_Of course George wouldn’t be his, no matter how many times he asked and wished and begged in his dreams (and, to the heavens). They were more than close, glued to each other’s side since the moment they were introduced and he assigned, but he was seventeen and gullible and they had social classes and hierarchy between them, obstacles he couldn’t tear down. A knight couldn’t be with a prince. Not even George could change those rules._

_The door swings open, it’s tiny rusty nails squeaking as they do, and Dream turns in time to see George closing it, a basket held in his hands._

_He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move as George clambers onto the bed beside him and sits cross-legged on the blankets that he himself gave to him, proper and noble. He sets the basket in front of them, and smiles._

_Dream hates it._

_He hates that a single person can remind him of everything good in this world, of untouchable gods and fairy tales and fae that exist only universes beyond their understanding, their reach. He hates that if there was a God, if Aphrodite was real and true then they would be sitting in front of him, in a blue cloak lined with white fur and eyes that pierced straight through him._

_“Are you cold?”_

_George’s voice holds promises and worlds he cannot touch. Cannot see. George’s voice holds concern and care that it shouldn’t._

_“No.” He says, even though the ice of the stone wall is seeping through the sheep's wool blanket and sinking into his bones. He receives an eyebrow raise as a response, a rich sigh as dainty hands reach to untie the ribbon at George’s throat and the cloak and hood slips off his shoulders._

_George wraps it around him, and if the pink blush on his cheeks is foretelling, he doesn’t speak._

_“What’s in the basket?” George grins, prepared for the question._

_Warm bread. Warm, buttered bread and apples as red as blood, and two honey coloured liquids in flasks that swirl as though they mimicked ambrosia. Dream stares. George holds the bread in his hands, offering him one._

_He wonders, briefly, if there’s a point to this. A meaning, even as he tugs the blanket and George’s cloak tighter around him._

_The weight is nice in his hands._

_“I’ll find a way. This wedding, it won’t happen. My rightful place is with you.” Dream pauses with warmth at his lips and butter melting in his mouth. George has always been… somewhat blunt. Straight to the point. He didn’t expect any different_

_“You shouldn’t speak like that,” Dream says as though his voice is strangled, and turns, face burning. George knew the impact of those words, the underlying meaning to them and he narrows his eyes, lips pursed._

_“Like what?”_

_“Like–like... a knight. Like me.” He doesn’t want to reduce something that smolders and shines as brightly as George to his level. It’s wrong._

_Those narrowed eyes turn to him and their gazes meet, far too close for comfort. When did George get so close?_

_“You’re ridiculous.” George sighs, and all the thoughts slip from his head as the prince kisses him abruptly, eyes widening before they slip shut. He feels everything fall into place, and his mind is empty but George’s lips are so soft and sweet and he never wants to leave._

_When they part, he hopes, wishes for more. “Stay with me,” he dares to ask, “just for tonight.”_

_The rain hails outside._

  
  


_“Hey, Dream?” George says, hours later with his head on Dream’s chest and hands clenched against his shirt._

_“Hm?”_

_“Promise me forever?”_

_He vows to never hear that hint of uncertainty in his voice again, that tinge of doubt._

_“You’ll get it, my prince.”_

* * *

  
  
  


_Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down._

_You loathe the way they light candles in Rome. Like Gods at the dawning of the world, joy so bright and blinding there was nothing but each other._

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> u made it to the end!! i don't have socials that are public, specifically, but i do try to respond to every comment. tysm for reading!!
> 
> last two lines are from the song achilles come down and the song of achilles bot on twt


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